Chapter Seventeen
After dinner, Arabella played one of her favorite sonatas by Beethoven. Adam St. Just came to stand beside her afterwards. “An excellent performance, Miss Knightley,” he said in a loud voice, and then, more quietly, so that she scarcely heard him: “May I visit you tonight?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She busied herself tidying the sheets of music. “Yes.”
The longcase clock in the hall struck ten as Arabella climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She glanced back from the half-landing. St. Just stood in the hallway, watching her.
Arabella blushed, and almost tripped over a step.
In her bedroom, a fire burned in the grate and the coverlet had carefully been turned back. Polly chattered cheerfully as she helped her prepare for the night. Arabella scarcely heard a word; h
